Eleven
by Artemis Day
Summary: There's a moment when you look into his eyes and you think you're seeing your greatest enemy, even though they are only the eyes of a newborn.


**A/N: So I've heard that 2****nd**** POV is extremely awkward and hard to write, but I like trying new things, so I decided to give it a shot. I probably won't do this much though, at least not with full length stories. **

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy.**

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You're awoken in the dead of night by a frazzled maid. You tiredly yell at the stupid woman for waking you like this, and she shakily informs you that Marianne has requested you're presence in the infirmary. She says the time has come.

You shoo the maid out, telling her you will follow shortly. You dress in silence. This is nowhere near the first time this has happened to you (your oldest already is almost grown). You chuckle at the thought of those man who go into a frenzy every time their wife gives birth, calling their child 'the most beautiful creature in the world'.

You rather hate children yourself. Babies are not all that cute despite what many seem to believe. They look like shriveled up raisins that scream and cry whenever they need something. You never much liked raisins anyway, or screaming.

As soon as you look intimidating enough to befit your title of Emperor, you exit the room to find the maid still waiting for you. You walk past her, you know where you're going and don't need a silly maid to show you.

She quietly walks behind you, so at least she's respectful.

When you arrived at the medical center, the guards on duty bow to you and move aside. As soon as you enter, you hear Marianne screaming and it hurts your ears. You hate screaming.

You are led to her bedside. She looks rather disgusting, you note. You also know that most husbands let their wives know how beautiful they are, even when they are almost due and look as though they've swallowed a beach ball. You do no such thing; the fact is that Marianne, and all your wives for that matter, look fat and ugly when pregnant.

She grips your hand, you try not to flinch at the tight hold. Marianne is screaming and cursing at you for 'doing this to her.' You become slightly angry at this and consider reminding her that she is to blame for her pregnancy as she is the one who got you drunk that night in the first place. You say nothing though, you simply keep holding her hand. Were it any of your other wives, you would yell at them for their insolence, who cares if they're in labor, you are the Emperor and will be treated as such. Marianne is different though, she is the only wife whom you can honestly say you love. The rest are just meat puppets.

The doctor tells Marianne that it's time to push. She does so with tears in her eyes. The sight almost makes you laugh, Marianne never cries. She is told to push again, and again, and again.

Then you hear a cry.

You know what that sound is, you've heard it dozens of times before. The doctor holds your newborn son in his arms and looks at you with a smile.

"Congratulations, your Majesty," He says, "You have a son."

You inwardly scoff, the man makes it sound like something important has just occurred. This child, at the moment, is a dependent and weak being. Until it is grown and can fend for itself, it's completely worthless. If it died right there, that would just prove it's weakness, and you wouldn't lose an ounce of sleep over it.

You feel this way about everyone, not just your children. Your brother warns you against this mentality. "One day," he says, "one of your children may defeat you before your plans can be realized." You ignore him though, because you know that would never happen. You've groomed your children (those that matter anyway) to be loyal to you always, they would never even think of going against you. So you do not heed your brother's words, and he calls you a fool for it.

The baby is taken to be cleaned. Marianne gasps for breath, clearly relieved that the pain is gone. You begin to wonder how she feels about all this. Though Marianne gives off an image that she is a kind, caring individual, you know the real her. The cold hearted, manipulative woman you fell in love with. You're not sure she has it in her to love someone other than herself (hell, you sometimes wonder if she truly loves _you_).

Even so, when the baby is placed in her arms a few minutes later, she is smiling and it is one of the few times that you're sure her smile is genuine. Maybe she does care for it then.

You watch her brush a piece of dark hair away from it's face. She spends almost a full minute gazing upon it, before turning to face you. Wordlessly, she holds out the child to you. You are slightly confused, you know from experience what she wants, you just didn't expect it from Marianne of all people.

Still, you nod and take the infant from her. She watches as you adjust the baby in your arms, and as you examine it. It looks just like all your other children did as infants: shriveled, red and tiny. At least it's stopped crying now. You notice the few wisps of hair on it's head are the same color as Marianne's, and you dimly wonder if it has her eyes too.

Almost as if reading your mind, it looks up at you, eyes wide open, and you stare into them for the first time.

For the next few moments, there is nothing else. There is only you and your new son. You cannot look away from his eyes, because they are your eyes. They are shaped like Marianne's but they are violet just like yours. More important though, is what's behind them. They stare into your own violet eyes with more than just childish curiousity, and there's a moment when you look at those eyes, and you almost think you're looking not at a child, but at your greatest foe. At the one who will someday rise above you and take the world from under your nose. You think that these eyes are the last thing you will ever see before you die. For a split second, the gaze of a child not even an hour old terrifies you, because you see something there that many others will not, at least not until he is much, much older.

You see power.

Of course, you quickly snap out of it and realize how foolish you are to think such things about a harmless infant. It's then that you vaguely register Marianne informing you that she's already given the child a name. You calmly nod for her to tell you, and again she smiles.

"His name is Lelouch," she says, "Lelouch vi Britannia."

And you remember that name, as well as the powerful violet eyes he possesses. Even years later when he stands before you, ready to abdicate his position out of anguish over his mother's 'death'. Even when he is sold out to you by the one he called 'friend' in exchange for power. Even when those eyes have been turned a familiar shade of red by the power of the kings, and he has completely destroyed everything you and Marianne worked for.

Those eyes are the last thing you ever see as with only a few simple words, you, Marianne, and your dreams vanish forever. Even as you fade from existence, you remember those eyes, and you can almost hear your brother from beyond the grave, laughing at you.


End file.
